


The Sous-Chef at 221B

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Brotp, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, chef!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes runs a clean, successful restaurant. John Watson isn't sure what he's getting himself into, but he is about to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sous-Chef at 221B

**Author's Note:**

> I am prefacing this with it being my first AU fic as well as my first "johnlock-esque" story. After binge watching cutthroat kitchen I couldn't help myself. And thus this was born.

It is well into mid morning, but the lights of the elegant upscale space are dark, encasing the modern, sleek room in night-like blackness. The window slants are drawn shut, a signal that the Michelin-star restaurant is closed for the morning. Though it is hardly _empty_ , with the way the space smells it might as well have been open for business. There were no words for it’s scent, wafting through the air, soaking into the skin, overwhelming the sense, intimidating an man who may come in for an employment opportunity. And, with the way the beautiful woman before him smiles, John could not help but feel the nervousness getting the better of his hands already, shaking as he followed her back into the kitchen. 

 

John Watson is far from an inspiring chef. Once a man of great status and stability, the former executive chef and restaurateur had hit a patch of bad luck, losing his restaurant after a bitter fight between himself and his former sous-chef. The lawsuit had ended his career as an executive chef and left him broke, unemployed and bitter. There was a time he’d been so desperate to have applied as a chef for a take away place, but pride got the better of him and he had not, spending the last of the loan he’d pulled to pay for his flat.

 

Places like 221B do not just host open interviews for sous-chef. John had heard of this place, respected the intelligence and design of it’s executive chef, but never in a million years thought he would be applying to work there. After all, a Michelin-star restaurant had a reputation to uphold, so when the sous-chef had unexpectedly left (she was pregnant, it was bound it happen) John near jumped on chance to get into a place like this. He, too, had a reputation to uphold, and sous-chef might as well been a position he would do well in. 

 

There was only one man among the pots and pans of the stainless steel kitchen, wrapped tightly in white. He seemed to be everywhere at once, all over that eight burner stove, scurrying between the flames of the searing pan, dancing around the oil of the grill, moving gracefully and swiftly, like cooking came naturally to him. What John Watson knew of Sherlock Holmes was limited to the interviews in magazines-few and far between. He was an elusive sort of man, not a fan of interviews or cameras or television shows of any kind. John could understand a man like that, the kind enthralled in his cooking, his company the comfort of a quiet kitchen. But here, in person, Sherlock Holmes was much more than the interviews and photoshoots could ever make him out to be. He was taller, paler, a bit more...human. 

 

“Anthea what on earth are you doing here?” It was the first thing John heard from the man’s mouth, voice deep and rich, proper. 

 

The woman does not hesitate a response. “Mister Holmes sent me over to escort your interviews into the building.”

 

“I am not having interviews, please leave.” The man dismisses her with a wave of his hand, not even turning to John. This does not go over well with the woman in black. 

 

“John Watson, former executive chef at Fusiliers, twenty years experience, two time awar-”

 

“Yes yes, he is qualified, I understand, but I do not need his _qualifications_ , I need his ability to cook _my_ dishes.” 

 

It is the sneer on the taller man’s face that grinds on John’s nerves, addressing the woman as if he does not exist, he is not standing right there, listening to every word that falls from his lips. So this time, John steps up. 

 

“All right, what is it you need me to cook?”

 

It is his turn to look flabbergasted, which was quite a rewarding expression from the executive chef, doing his best to remain composed. 

 

John knows he’s getting in deep when the man before him squints just enough to make him want to squirm. Still he stands tall before him, chest out, ready for his orders. He needs this job, the last thing he wants to do is walk out. 

 

After a whiff of the air, the man turns and points to the walk-in. 

 

“Get the duck out and butterfly it,” he orders effortlessly, turning the handle of the sauté pan so that the onions caramelizing would flip. John wastes no time and follows quickly the orders he’s been given, heading into the walk-in. 

 

By the time he returns with the duck the woman is gone and it is just John and the tall dark chef in the kitchen together. He is not even wearing his coat, he does not have his knives, utensils or anything of his own to work with. It’s turning into a deep nightmare as the time ticks on, and John is thrown into the middle of it. He feels the urge to walk out, to not get involved, leave the place and settle for that indian take away place looking for a cook, but a part of him nags on to get it together and show this man that perhaps he did have a place in the kitchen. 

 

Finding a set of sharp knives (among a series of dull ones) John quickly opens the duck breast, butterflying it open wide. He assumes the man wants it tenderized, but duck is already a fairly tender meat, so he stalls. 

 

“What next chef?” 

 

It slips out before he can check himself. The man tosses him a mallet. 

 

“Tenderize it, then stuff it with an herb breadcrumb gruyere cheese wedge. Roll it tight and wrap with bacon. Put it under the salamander when you’re finished and then move onto an arugula salad with a walnut raspberry vinaigrette.” 

 

He doesn’t even stop seasoning the potato puree before him to say it, like it’s second nature for the two of them to be working. 

 

“Yes chef-” is John’s reply as he quickly moves about for the mallet tossed his way. He finds the plastic wrap to lay over before he begins to tenderize the tender meat just a bit more before letting it rest as he goes off for the rest of the ingredients. There isn’t much more of a sound from the kitchen other than sizzling and clamouring, the other chef is very quiet and focused in his work, something John finds himself grateful for. He also keeps a very neat kitchen, another thing John was particular on. 

 

Keeping with the theme of doing what he’s told, John worked his way through breading a stick of cheese before rolling it all up and wrapping it in bacon. Once tied neatly, John picks it up and takes it to the broiler, closing it down and heading off to the sink to wash his hands. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other chef with a smoke torch heading towards stalks of kale. He could easily get distracted by the pure talent of the other man, his new aged cuisine is something to be admired and studied-yet he knows that in a kitchen there is not much time to really aimlessly admire others and their talents. John moves on from his curiosity and the bizarre man, heading back to the make shift station he’s got to create the salad he’s been given. 

 

It takes him no time at all to whip it up, and in that time the other chef has moved the duck from the broiler and into a flash fryer without John even noticing. Whirling around he finds it moved and into a puree before being handed back to him inside a bottle. He looked at the other man, confused, before a bowl was pushed forward. 

 

“Fill this,” ordered Sherlock, pointing at the duck puree in the bottle, “Add the salad and then pass to me.” 

 

John does this with just a nod of understanding, handing off the dish to the chef without another word. Sherlock plates it along with his smoked kale, using tweezers to balance delicate edible flowers atop the green mixture. He steps back with a swipe of the towel over the edge, proud of the dish before him. He’s lost in admiration for the way it looks, and it is beautiful, stunning really, beyond anything John had ever seen before in person let alone had a hand in making. He keeps quiet, standing next to him with a lost expression. 

 

“I start prepping for dinner at eleven am each day.” At last the silence is broken by the other chef, whose gaze is still picking over the dish, looking for imperfections. “We are open five in the evening to midnight and every night we are full. There are seven other chefs you will work with who will all answer to you. You answer to me and me only.” 

 

Sherlock whisks away a raspberry seed from a leaf, “The pay is good and the hours are long. You will leave here with a unique set of skills that no one else in the world will teach you. If you choose to leave I ask you give me a few days notice. If you screw up-” and this time he looks up to address John, the first time since they were introduced, “I will not hesitate to fire you.” His eyes are ice, sharp and clear, making sure John could not glance away. And he didn’t. 

 

Instead, John gives him a bit of a shrug, ducking his head away from the intensity of his stare. 

 

“Great, when do I start?” 

 

Sherlock looked at him, baffled. 

 

“Tonight, obviously.” 

 


End file.
